


some things you do just to see how bad they'll make you feel

by exhaustedwerewolf



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: (one vague line but still), Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, I ain't got time to bleed, I started writing this before Season 2 ended so it's sort of vaguely outside of the timeline, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Violence, Juno Steel's Inferiority Complex, Not Canon Compliant, Other, Post-Episode: s01e18 Juno Steel & The Final Resting Place, Pre-Relationship, Timeline What Timeline, but it's still, self sabotage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-23 21:43:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20233021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exhaustedwerewolf/pseuds/exhaustedwerewolf
Summary: Juno Steel is used to a lot of things, and getting hurt on the job is one of them.Juno Steel is not used to asking for what he needs.





	some things you do just to see how bad they'll make you feel

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from 'Cry for Judas' by the Mountain Goats. Thanks for reading, and hope you enjoy it!

The coat, blood soaked to stiffness, is crumpled at the foot of the chair Nureyev has ordered Juno into. Juno only has the one chair, but even if there had been another, Nureyev would probably have still ended up where he is; sitting on the floor to better reach the wound, face up close enough to the gash that he has to be able to smell the iron in Juno’s blood. Every so often Nureyev reaches up to the rickety little dining table, feeling blindly until his fingers close around whatever he needs- the bottle of rubbing alcohol, a tattered cloth to soak in it-

Juno, for his part, tries to sit still and keep from twisting under his touch.

“Really, Juno,” Nureyev chides as he works, not hearing, or charitably ignoring the noises Juno is making under his breath- hissed expletives, poorly stifled growls. “You _must _be more careful.” 

“Yeah,” Juno says, aiming for nonchalance, missing disastrously as his voice _shakes_. He tries again; “We have to stop meeting like this.” Fails, again. 

Nureyev hums in response.

“Hold still, please.”

Juno does his best to tune it all out; Nureyev and the stinging press of his fingertips, each point of pressure distinctly dizzying. He tries to focus instead on the distant, oceanic roar of city traffic and pouring rain. That drowns them both out some, and it’s not long before his thoughts are sinking beneath the nostalgic, chemical smell of disinfectant, swirling with the as-familiar, heady scent of Nureyev’s cologne. The distant pain, his heartbeat, the scents, all of them rise and recede; a lazy tidal force. Impossible to concentrate on, and impossible to resist as the slow rotation of Mars itself underneath them.

He _feels_ a droplet ooze its way out of him, catches his tongue between his teeth, sickened with deja vu. 

So, probably there’s a fair bit of blood loss involved, too.

Nureyev has flicked on a weak lamp so that he can see what he’s doing while he works, but Juno didn’t hit the overhead switch when he was stumbling through the doorway, so the rest of the apartment is dark in the kind of way that makes it mostly cease to exist outside of their puddle of light. Which leaves Nureyev kneeling at his feet, silhouetted by the neon glow of Hyperion City- and that’s _something_. 

The rain droplets on the misty window behind him are set alight with traffic-light greens and electric billboard blues, kaleidoscopic, pulsing with life like fluorescent blood. Rivulets of colour and light are left in their wake where they trace the glass.

Peter- _Nureyev’s _hair is still wet with it, the technicolour rain. Juno can taste the brackish water on his own lips from where it’s run down his face. 

Almost out of nowhere, his vision is swallowed by a swell of grey-black that’s almost unconsciousness, that behind-the-eyelids staticky void somehow darker than black-dark, only his eyes are still open. His hearing pitches into nothingness, his vision goes, he barely feels himself listing-

Nureyev catches at the cut, roughly, sending a broken-glass splinter of pain straight under Juno’s skin, shocking the planet back into full colour.

_“Ah-” _The noise dragged out of Juno is hitched, half-gasped. He tastes the salt of the rain and the blood again, needle-sharp. “The hell was that for?!”

“I have no idea what you mean.” Nureyev says coyly, eyes downcast, afixed on his work.

“_Hell_.” The thickness of nausea in his throat turns the word too heavy to be anything but. 

“Yes,” Nureyev huffs, still not looking up. “You said that already. _Don’t _squirm.” 

Now that Juno’s made the mistake of looking at him properly, he can see his hands- his fingers are graceful, dextrous. Stained red up to the knuckles. Juno Steel’s blood on Peter Nureyev’s hands strikes him as deeply wrong; an act of vandalism. A priceless marble statue doused in discount store acrylic. 

“When were you going to say something, Juno?” Nureyev asks quietly.

Juno shudders- surely the last of the adrenalin leaving his system and not the honey-liqueur-over-ice of Nureyev’s voice, smooth and sweet and still somehow burning. He lets his eyes flicker shut. 

In his head, they are back in the alleyway. Juno, doubled over, seizing for breath like it’s trying to get away from him on purpose, hand braced against the brick wall. Nureyev, splayed artfully against it, chest heaving, head tilted back, grinning through his breathlessness. Infuriatingly, he’s beautiful, even in his disarray, even with his shirt soaked and sticking to him and his damp hair falling into his eyes. Roguishly dishevelled. 

The pain is immense- as if too ambitious to be confined to the gaping wound, it’s an ugly tangle of aching and throbbing, a sharper sting that sears through his nerves like a current coursing through a circuit board. His throat feels like he’s just swallowed a fistful of razorblades. A jagged, sawtooth breath in collapses into a fit of coughs, and he covers his mouth with the hand that he’s not propping himself up with. 

“Juno.” 

Juno bites down on his fingers and concentrates on staying standing. His brain is more noisily grinding gears than conscious thought right now, and he doesn’t hear Nureyev at all until he repeats himself, with growing urgency. 

“Juno.” 

“Shut up and let me think for a second, will you?” Juno snaps automatically. 

Inside it’s all just metal on metal, a rasping, drawn out scrape, drowning out the part of his brain usually responsible for getting him out of these situations alive. 

The touch seems to come out of nowhere, and Juno spasms in surprise. Peter- _Nureyev_\- hehesitates, and Juno tries to hold completely still, but realises that he’s shivering, maybe, and sure, the rain against his face is cold, icy, even, but he’s all horrendous heat on the inside- red-glowing iron, the fireworks shower of sparking laser-cut steel. So he clenches his jaw to try and mask the shudder. When Juno doesn’t say anything, Nureyev curls his lip and drags open the front of the coat without asking. He breathes in sharply.

“Juno, you’re _bleeding._”

“Am I, Nureyev?” He rasps, unable to keep the heat out of his voice. “Gee, thanks for letting me know. I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

Nureyev looks right at him then, his hands still on the collar of the coat, and for a brief moment Juno’s gone entirely, a mental short-circuit- or, no, more like a Hyperion-wide power outage. 

The fog of Nureyev’s breath in the night air passes between them like mist, and Juno can taste his warmth when he inhales. Every cell sears white-hot.

“Would you get off of me-?” He tears away from him for real then, shoving at him roughly, and Nureyev lets go, a look of hurt playing across his face- an echo from the Martian tomb, and the momentary agony of guilt is impossible to ignore, transcends the carnal pain completely- “Damnit, Nureyev, do you honestly think we’ve got the time for-”

Then came the splash of hurried footfalls, the click of a blaster being primed-

Juno winces.

“There.” Nureyev says, running his fingers along the bandage in such a way that Juno can hear as much as feel the sharpness of his nails. “That should keep your blood inside you, at least for tonight.”

“Thanks.” Juno manages, feeling the dig of the chair against his back, the solid contact of the floor underfoot. He looks pointedly askance and tries to breathe, but that perfume- every painful lungful is laced with it.

He expects Nureyev to get up, but he stays where he is, kneeling, his touch lingering against Juno’s ribs. 

“_Were_ you planning on mentioning this?” he ventures, “Because-”

“Didn’t think it was all that relevant is all,” Juno chokes out, “There were other priorities.”

“Other priorities?” Nureyev repeats, and instantly, Juno can hear the undercurrent of anger in his voice, still cool but seething like acid, now, and it makes his pulse throb in his wrists. Old habits die hard, but old survival strategies- well, it’s in the name.

“Look, I’m- sorry.” He mumbles, drops his gaze, hates himself wholeheartedly for a good long second, during which Nureyev doesn’t say a goddamn thing. He takes his hands away, and Juno looks up to find his gaze waiting.

“You should know that I won’t think less of you if-” He begins, and then stops, runs his tongue along his teeth. Starts again. “Juno, you _are_ my priority.” 

Juno barks out a laugh, more surprise than anything, cut short when it sends pain cracking through his ribs. Nureyev, though, is still looking at him- the headlights of a car gliding too close to the window bend the shadows in the room, and Juno can’t make out the expression on his face. When the lamplight glows brightest again, Nureyev closes his eyes, the shadow of his lashes stark on his cheeks.

He smiles, a little sadly, and combs his hair back with his still bloodied fingers. Juno puts up a hand as if to stop him, but no words come out, and he lets it fall again.

“I only wish you were your own.” 

Nothing. The endless exhale of rainfall and traffic. Total stillness inside the lamplight.

“I suppose you don’t have to believe me.” He adds, quietly- his eyes flutter open, his gaze glassy at first, and then sharpening again, as if he’s awakening from a dream. 

“Forgive me, Juno.” He says. He stands, smiles down at him, a very different smile. His eyes are dark- if eyes are the windows to the soul, Nureyev’s just drawn the blackout blinds. “It’s late, and we’ve both had a long day.” 

“Yeah,” Juno says, hoarsely. “Sure.” His heart is throbbing like a bullet wound in his chest, and it’s the only thing he can feel. 

“I should take my leave.” He makes to turn, and Juno catches clumsily at his wrist.

“Nureyev-” It comes out airless- his lungs ache as he says it, like he’s been holding his breath in sick suspense for an ice water plunge that never came. 

Nureyev looks down at where Juno’s fingers encircle his forearm, expression unreadable. Juno lets go. 

“You said it yourself; it’s late.” He’s looking past Nureyev, now, so as to not have to look into his eyes again, and the vivid shine of rainwater on the window reminds him; “It’s pouring.”

“I’ll flag a cab.” Nureyev says.

“Like hell you will, at this time of night.” Juno straightens, flinchingly. He wants to go on, opens his mouth to do so, but- 

The silence stretches. Nureyev gives a considering sort of _hm_, and Juno risks a glance at his face and feels- 

God, what _doesn’t _he feel?

“Don’t want you getting pneumonia, is all.” He manages, strangled. 

“Juno,” Nureyev says, and it’s not especially quiet but it’s gentle, a soothing touch against a raw wound, gentle in the kind of way that makes Juno tense for a losing fight. “I’m only going to stay if you ask me to.”

“What does it look like I’m-” Juno starts, half desperate, but Nureyev interrupts him with something between a short laugh and a sigh. 

“No,” He says, still with that excruciating gentleness. “I think you’ll find you haven’t, yet.”

_Stay. _Juno thinks, feels the largeness of the word in his throat, and can barely breathe past it. 

He finds himself staring at where the rainwater has soaked into his awful rug. Hears the click of Nureyev’s shoes as he steps from it, out of the circle of light, and onto the dark floorboards. 

“Goodnight, Juno.” He says, and for a moment he is a shadow in the doorway, one slender hand on the frame, looking back at him over his shoulder.

And then Juno is alone with the ache and the sound of the rain.


End file.
